Alchemy
by Totschafe
Summary: In the summer of 1995, Dean Winchester meets his guardian angel, who promises Dean that he will see him every year on the same date. Through the course of more than a decade, their relationship grows through tragedy and friendship, as Dean's life changes each year. AU, Destiel


I don't own the characters or the show or any of that goodness. And this is loosely based on the novel The Vintner's Luck by Elizabeth Knox, what with angels and repeated visits and such. Totally a huge book recommendation of mine.

So, I'd like to hear what you think! It's not my first SPN fic (those are all on Tumblr or Dreamwidth), but it's the first that I've put on here. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_"Angels are watching over you."_

* * *

_1995_

When Dean was sixteen years old, two amazing things happened within a month of each other. Dean shot his first monster with a silver-tipped crossbow, and then stood side by side with his father as it burned in the fire, black-charred arms stretched out toward the sky as its skin shrank and fell off in flakes. Sam was sleeping in the car, with Dean's jacket serving as a pillow. It was the night that Dean decided to take on the mantle of being a full-fledged hunter, with two things in mind; save people, and protect Sam.

That event took place on a balmy night in early July. The second event happened in August, while John had rented a motel in Waukee, Iowa. Two things took place that night. The first was that John and Dean had fought, mostly with an exchange of harsh words, laced with long-standing bitterness. It had been something petty, starting with what they thought they'd go get to eat. Then, it had escalated into a question of why didn't they really stay anywhere permanent? Dean defended his side by saying that John was denying Sam his childhood, and then snapped that John had already ripped his own away from him. By the end, Sam was crying on one of the beds, knees pressed to his chest, and Dean was storming out of the room and darting across the road to a cornfield, where he sat for the next two hours.

The night was humid, with the air almost soupy with the heat and moisture. Crickets chirped around Dean, lending to a pleasant atmosphere. Above him, the stars shone clear on the cloudless night. It should have been calming, but Dean was still seething with rage, going as far as to bite the knuckle of his index finger to keep himself quiet. That was when the second event of the night happened.

"Dean," said a very clear voice.

Dean nearly leapt out of his skin, at first thinking it was John, and then coming to the conclusion that John's voice had never been so clear, although the gravel was still there. Slowly, he looked up, and his eyes widened.

Before him stood an angel. Full-fledged, with the white robe and the wings, and only missing the halo. His wings were tucked against his back, and it was hard to see what color they were in the limited light. If it wasn't for his wings, he probably would have looked like a regular guy. He was reasonably tall, with mussed brown-black hair, and pale-colored eyes, and what looked like the bare hints of five o'clock shadow on his jaw. He tilted his head as he looked down at Dean, and then a corner of his mouth quirked up. "Hello," he said.

At first, Dean didn't breathe a word. He was sure he was hallucinating, but when the angel took a step forward and one wing seemed to flex out a bit, he became incredibly sure that he was in fact in shock.

"You're..." he choked out, but 'an angel' didn't quite make it out of his mouth.

"I know exactly what I am, and I know exactly who you are," the angel responded, seeming amused with Dean's reaction. He bent down toward Dean, who was half splayed out on the ground, hands barely supporting him, as though he was trying to get away. The angel reached forward with one hand, two fingers outstretched. With the lightest touch, he pressed them against Dean's forehead.

It was the oddest sensation, as though a great warm wave had washed over Dean. A sense of impossible calm filled him. His heart slowed to a steady pace, and his breathing evened.

"There," the angel said, seeming pleased.

For a long moment, both of them were silent, with only the soft hiss of corn stalks brushing against each other permeating the quiet. Then, Dean looked up at him, eyes still wide, but more with wonder than terror. "So, you're an angel," he stated.

"So I am."

"But dad said angels don't exist."

The angels mouth quirked up again. "I'm surprised in the state of things at the moment that you would be so willing to admit your father is right about anything."

"You know about that?"

"It's why I'm here," he said. He looked over in the direction of the motel, his quirked smile fading into an expression denoting more frustration than anything. "I suppose it was really only a matter of time, Dean."

Dean continued staring up at him, his eyes slowly moving to look at the wings, which as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, seemed to be darker than what he thought angel wings should be. All the paintings of angels made them seem to have wings like pearls, stretching outward and glowing. This angel's wings were dark like silver, at least from what he could see. Then, his eyes flickered back to the angel, who in turn was looking back down at him. "Why are you here?"

"You could say I'm your guardian angel," he responded. "Since last month, you have silently called to me, or to my Father, even if you wouldn't want to admit it. I suppose I was overdue to see you." With that, he sat down across from Dean, his wings folding and crossing behind him in an X-shape at his back. "Your heart is much heavier than you ever wanted to say."

"What about other people?" Dean asked, and he could see from the amusement on the angel's face that he had been caught avoiding the subject. "I know tons of people have it way worse. Why haven't their guardian angels showed up?" Unless..." His eyes narrowed. "You're a shapeshifter."

The angel sighed, setting his elbow on his knee and propping his head on his hand. "Dean, you have skepticism bred into you. But, I can at least say this. Your heart _is_heavy. You remember your mother's death, and the change in your father, and that was your very first burden to bear. The next was your brother, whom you swore you would throw your very life into the flames to save if such a situation came. Now, you have seen the darker side of hunting, and you want to stay in those ranks, even though you know that the life of a hunter is notoriously short. Would you truly say I was a shapeshifter in this case?"

Dean had fallen silent again, staring at the angel, half-furious and half-curious. "How do you know all of that?"

"I already told you."

"Okay, so what about other people? Like I asked before?"

The angel sighed once more, but it seemed much more wistful. "Others aren't as diligent. Some have guardians like Raphael, or Michael, who are far too busy to even concern themselves with anything higher than a fatal car accident."

At that, Dean's eyes narrowed. "So, then why are you more _diligent_?"

"I'm a lesser angel, you could say. I do have a high degree of spiritual power, but I am nothing close to being an archangel. I don't have the amount of charges an archangel would have. In fact, you're one of very few in the world," the angel explained. Then, he put his other elbow on his knee and leaned forward. "So, because of this, it led me to you. You have been calling out since you were four years old to something you didn't understand. It's just that now, you have the proverbial knife to your throat, which very few sixteen year old boys have. That's why I'm here."

Dean stared at him for a long while in the darkness, silent. It was more than he had expected to hear, and it came with a rush that followed the very idea that he had abandoned by the time he was seven years old. Angels existed. Angels had been watching over him the entire time. This angel in particular was now there, watching him, assessing him. His pale eyes peered at him, waiting patiently for some kind of reaction or response. "Then..." Dean began, lowering his voice. "Why are you here _right now_? What are you supposed to be doing?"

Obviously, that had been what the angel had been waiting for. Even in the limited light, Dean could see him smile again. "I'm here to lend you advice. You began hunting last month, and it's led to some mixed feelings toward your father. If anything, it's brought to the surface many issues you've had with him. Talk to him over the next year. Be patient. Think of your brother, and how he looked when you left earlier. It may not make things perfect, but there will be a change. A definite change."

"That's it?" Dean asked, nonplussed. "Just some advice?"

The angel snorted, or what sounded like a soft snort. If it had been lighter, Dean would have sworn the angel had rolled his eyes. "More than that. I will see you a year from this date exactly. You will be in a motel in Douglas, Wyoming."

"One year. And how do you know where I'll be?"

"I'm an angel. _Your_angel. I know these things," came the amused response. Then, one hand came up, with the index finger outstretched. "One year. Understand?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean replied, rolling his eyes. However, by the time he went to look at the angel again, there was an empty space, and a faint breeze blowing through the corn stalks. He looked all around him, and then up, as though perhaps some bird-like shape would be seen in the starlit sky. Nothing. Except for the sensation of something brushing by his cheek. He raised his hand to his shoulder, and his eyes widened when he felt the familiar texture of a bird's feather, about the length of his forearm from wrist to elbow. From what he could see, it was the same tarnished silver of the wings on the angel. With an odd grin, he put the feather into the back pocket of his jeans. If Sam asked, it was a vulture feather. If dad asked...

Right, the angel had suggested trying to patch things up. But John had been furious with Dean. He had been raising hell, and it was a wonder that the people in the room next to them hadn't shouted at them to shut up. How was Dean supposed to approach someone like that? Yet, the sour feeling in his stomach when he had stormed out was gone, and in its place was the remnants of that strange calm the angel had given him.

Maybe, just maybe, he could muster up the courage to talk to John.

For Sam's sake.

* * *

_1996_

It had been an astoundingly good night. For all that Douglas, Wyoming seemed to be a calm, cutesy town, it had its fair share of gamblers. And, due to some handy lessons from John, Dean had proudly gotten somewhere around six hundred dollars from a drunk poker player who swore up and down that there was never going to be a day that he would lose to some kid. But, he did, and when a fit of rage had the bartender and two other men yanking him out of the bar, Dean had ended up with the money, a free beer, and a huge grin on his face.

At first, he offered all the money to John in exchange for the pistol and rifle he had bought Dean the month before, but in a rare moment of outright kindness (and maybe some extra fatherly emotions), John only took one hundred, saying that it would help pay for gas, and maybe a little bit of work on the Impala. The other five hundred was Dean's to keep. He planned on taking Sam out for a night, just to give the kid a little more childhood experience to put under his belt, but he'd wait until they were in a place a little more exciting than Douglas.

The Winchesters ended up taking a room at the Watering Hole Motel, just at the outskirts of Douglas. The motel was kitschy as hell, with wallpapers of jackalopes and tumbleweeds, and a lovingly created taxidermy head of a jackalope staring at them above their television. The coincidence of the night was that the only thing reasonable on television was a marathon of John Wayne movies. John and Dean had actually laughed over it, and Sam grinned at the mere sight of their amusement.

It wasn't until two o'clock in the morning, when John was snoring in one bed, and Sam was nearly cemented to Dean's side in the other, that suddenly Dean was hit with a firm strike of nostalgia. He imagined silver wings, like the feather he kept hidden at the bottom of his backpack, which never seemed to fray or dent. He imagined corn stalks swaying in a sudden warm breeze, and pale eyes regarding him with amusement. It was enough to make him restless. He whispered a soft 'sorry' to Sam as he nudged him away, and luckily his brother was too tired to ask, opting instead for rolling onto his other side and murmuring something unintelligible. Quietly, Dean got up, edging his way to the front door where he slid into his boots, and then opened the door and slipped outside.

The night was clear, and much less humid than it had been exactly a year before. The stars formed a glimmering dome above him, completely unobscured by a single cloud. The nostalgia just seemed to seep deeper into Dean as he leaned up against the side of the motel, and he wondered if he had imagined the angel mentioning that they would see each other again in a year.

Until a sudden breeze proved that there was no imagination involved.

"Hello, Dean," the angel said, suddenly standing beside him, his wings pressed against the siding. He was smiling calmly, but his eyebrows were raised expectantly. "Did my advice work?"

Had it ever. Dean could clearly remember the events that had taken place after he returned to the room. At first, John seemed to rise with hackles raised, ready for another shouting match, and Sam had all but retreated into a corner, expecting the worst. But, Dean had kept his cool, calmly apologizing and saying that the stress of the past month had just gotten to him a little more than he wished. John was surprised, nearly gaping at him, before awkwardly shuffling and apologizing in return for his temper getting the best of him as well. From then on, it had been easier to talk to John, and it had ended with John teaching Dean some of his best money-making techniques, as well as a whole array of new hunting tricks. It had been the closest they had ever been since Dean was a child.

"Yeah, more or less," Dean replied, one hand going into his pocket where he felt the thick edge of some of the money he had earned that night.

The angel leaned forward, seeming to examine Dean. "You're happy. I can tell," he observed.

"Heh, yeah. I got six hundred bucks off some drunk card player tonight. That's more money than I've seen in forever. Dad was pretty damn proud," he said, smiling at the thought. "Sammy's kinda thrilled, too."

"He's happy because you are," the angel said, making it sound like it was another simple observation.

Dean nodded, closing his eyes, wryness edging its way into his expression. "Yeah, I noticed. I've been talking to him more lately. I mean, the kid's smart, y'know? But, he follows me around like some lost puppy. I mean, he's gotta be his own guy at some point, right?"

The angel nodded, looking down at the gravel, his bare toes nudging some of it aside. "Of course. But right now, you're his idol. He wants to be everything you are, and he'll want that for a long time to come. Eventually, he'll be able to move away from it, and pursue his own dreams and ideas. However, he's still a child, and you're his older brother."

For a long moment, Dean was quiet, looking up at the vast span of stars above them. "Do you have any brothers? Or, do angels have family?"

"All angels are my family," came the soft reply. Dean turned to see the angel continuing to stare down, carving a path of dirt into the gravel with the edge of his foot.

"Do you like them?" Dean chanced.

The response was a low laugh, though it was hard to tell if there was any humor in it. "I suppose. Though, I've seen it in enough human families to know that even if your family is large, you don't have to like everyone in it. That being said..."

"Ah, sibling rivalry, huh?"

"You could call it that," the angel responded, his quirked grin coming back. Then, he turned his head to look at Dean. "Why the question about me?"

Dean shrugged, turning to look back up at the stars. "Just wondering. It's kind of weird for you to show up knowing all these things about me, and me knowing nothing about you. Didn't seem even."

"My apologies. Sometimes I forget how conversational humans like to be," the angel said, sincere despite how entertained he sounded.

"So, let's start with the basics. Your name," Dean said.

"Castiel."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Interesting name. Is that like a theme? Y'know, with everything ending in -el? Angel naming trend?"

"Not quite," Castiel said, a laugh just on the edge of his words. "It just denotes that we belong to God, or that we do something for Him."

"Makes sense. How old are you?"

Castiel looked up at the sky thoughtfully before shrugging. "Several eons, at least. I don't believe you could attribute a permanent measure of time to my existence."

Eons. That put things a little more into perspective for Dean. It had already seemed unreal, for an angel to be speaking to him, to have admitted to watching over him since he was very young. Yet, the angel was older than time itself. He was beyond the simple term of 'ancient'. The River Valley Civilizations probably seemed like they appeared and disappeared last week, as far as Castiel was concerned.

"Well, huh," Dean said eloquently.

Castiel shook his head, still watching the stars and carving another groove into the gravel. "So, to get your mind back on other things, how has your year gone?"

There was a broad answer to that. Naturally, the year had it's ups and downs, as any period of three hundred sixty five days could. "Pretty good," Dean concluded, his hand returning to his pocket. "I mean, yeah, like I said, the advice worked out okay. Dad taught me a couple things, like for card playing and hunting. Made some cash in a couple places. Got my first big hunt when we were in Mississippi."

"Oh?"

Dean smiled widely at the memory, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back against the siding. "Yeah. Two vampires in some swamp town. Thought they were some big threat, y'know? But I chased them out to an abandoned shack. I took the girl's head off with a machete, and you'd never believe it, but the other one just gave up. Cried over her and acted like he completely forgot I was there. So, I took his head off, too, and burned 'em to a crisp. Dad was so damn proud. That's when he got me my new pistol and rifle. It was kind of a 'congratulations' deal." He chuckled, remembering when he was handed the pistol, its frame shining bright silver, like the bullets they kept in the trunk. John acted like it was no big deal, just handing it over to him and telling him not to be stupid with it like shooting himself in the foot.

"That sounds exciting," Castiel commented. Dean saw him flex one wing outward, as though stretching it, like he was trying to make himself comfortable.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, I'm fine. I just flew a long distance today," he said, as though it was perfectly normal to say.

"How far?"

"From Lhasa to... I believe Johannesburg? And then to here," Castiel replied off-handedly.

"In one _day_?"

Flexing his other wing, Castiel nodded. Then, he reached up to his left wing and brushed some of the feathers flat, smoothing them out. "Yes. I was in Lhasa this morning. However, I knew I would have to be in Douglas by midnight, so I left early. I was only about an hour late than I had expected."

It was almost laughable how casually Castiel spoke of flying across the expanse of the earth in a day. So, Dean did laugh. "What, you got a layover in Johannesburg?"

"So to speak."

"Well, glad you could fit me in your busy schedule," Dean joked, one step away from nudging Castiel in the side with his elbow. However, poking an immortal holy figure seemed a little on the sacrilegious side.

"I wouldn't have missed it. I was rather anxious to see how you were doing."

"Couldn't you just have spied on me all angel-like? You know, like James Bond, 'cept with wings?"

One of Castiel's eyebrows rose in confusion. "Who is James Bond?" he deadpanned.

"You mean you've been around for eternity and flew over the whole world and you don't know who James Bond is? 007? Seriously?"

"Seriously." And Castiel was indeed tragically serious.

Dean made a short 'tsk' sound and shook his head. "Man, if you come around here next year, I'm going to have to make you watch at least one James Bond movie."

"Would you want to see me next year?" Castiel asked honestly. "Even if it was just to have me watch a movie."

Dean couldn't help but be a little taken aback. It was odd enough that an angel had even revealed himself to someone like Dean, but for the angel to actually seem to want to see him on a regular basis was outright odd. "Don't you have some holy work to do? I mean, aren't angels busy?"

"Angels are beyond any human imagination, Dean. My work can be done over the course of a century, and still be done on time. I always have time for those I watch over," Castiel said, almost serenely. "That being said, of course I have work to do. However, I can make time once a year to see you, if that is what you really want."

"Well, hey, if you haven't seen a Bond movie, it might just have to happen," came the amused reply, even though Dean was mulling in the idea of time just simply not mattering to an angel. Strange, then, for Castiel's choice to see him anyway.

Castiel nodded, as though coming to the supreme conclusion. "Very well. One year from this date again. In Manitowoc, Wisconsin."

"I'll hold you to it," Dean said, once more resisting the urge to elbow Castiel.

With that, Castiel disappeared, similarly to how he had left the year before. He left with a breeze following him, and once more, a single tarnished-silver feather floated down from the sky, as though Castiel was leaving a physical promise that in a year, he would return.

* * *

_1997_

Blood was dripping from somewhere under Dean's hairline, and some dried flecks of it ringed around his nostrils from a stopped nosebleed. A bruise was forming on Dean's right cheek; purple growing across his skin like a stain. He had limped from the Lakeside Bar to the lakeshore, holding his sprained wrist to his chest, hardly ready to go back to the motel and tell John what had happened. Then again, John would probably tell him he deserved it, and to go clean himself up. In this case, Sam might be the only one who would care.

Eventually, he would have to go back, both pride and body shattered in different ways. Bar fights were like that. The winner could always walk away with his head held high and probably a few hundred bucks in his pocket. The loser was about as good as a pile of garbage, and it wasn't until his hangover wore off the next morning that he might even begin to feel like maybe he was something higher than trash. However, at the moment, Dean was feeling lower than ever.

The conditions of the night seemed to mock him. It was chillier than it had been for the past few days, with the nights hardly peeking over the sixty mark. Yet, the sky was clear of clouds, though the light from downtown made the stars hard to see, and a little bit hazy.

'_Like before_," Dean thought, holding his wrist closer to his chest. '_The kind of night for angels, I guess_.'

He hadn't forgotten the date this time. Yet, it seemed like that night wasn't working for him, so the chance of an angel appearing to watch a James Bond movie with him didn't seem to be in the cards. If anything, he wondered if Castiel might have been disgusted with Dean's behavior earlier, what with underage drinking and fighting, and the week before when he took Emily whatever-her-last-name-was behind the library in Fort Wayne, with her giggling and blushing and saying she had never done anything like _this_before. It was probably enough to make Castiel never want to see him again.

Yet, the wind shifted like it had done for two years now, and he knew Castiel stood beside him. However, there was no greeting, or any sort of poke at the James Bond plan. Instead, there was a heavy silence. Dean didn't bother to turn around. Even though he had only seen Castiel twice, and for just a half hour at most, he felt like he could already see the angel's expression. Maybe disappointment, concern, and if anything, sadness. Sadness that he had come to Dean while Dean was in such poor shape.

"Guess I'm pretty sorry to look at, huh?" Dean asked, feeling his heart beat against his wrist.

"You're injured," Castiel stated, his voice sounding dark. "You were in a fight."

"And lost," Dean supplied, though not helpfully. In fact, if Castiel's opinion of him wasn't lowering rapidly, Dean's opinion of himself was surely making up for it. He felt even worse beyond the physical hurt. He knew how disappointed John and Sam would be, and now even an agent of Heaven was probably far from thrilled.

He heard Castiel move behind him, a soft shift of feathers indicating it. Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder, gently urging him to turn to the angel. What surprised Dean was that, when he did turn, the expression on Castiel's face wasn't what he had pictured. Yes, there was sadness, but he wasn't disappointed. If anything, he looked frightened. His hand moved down to carefully bring Dean's wrist toward him. Dean watched as the angel examined it, probably looking through the skin to the muscle and bone. Castiel's eyebrows furrowed as he turned his wrist. "You've sprained it. It causes you a lot of pain to move it any bit more than you've been allowing yourself."

"Well, yeah. No shit. It _hurts_," Dean ground out, the bite to his words unintentional. If anything, he was just angry at himself.

"I'm sorry," Castiel said, the apology sounding far too sincere than anything Dean had expected to hear.

"For what?"

With Dean's wrist still in his hands, Castiel stared down, shaking his head. "I was supposed to guard you. To protect you."

"And what? Prevent a fight in a bar? You're an angel, not a bouncer," Dean said. His words slurred, though he wasn't sure if it was from the alcohol, of what little he drank, or the strange, warm feeling that seemed to be emanating from Castiel's hands. "You're... I dunno. You shouldn't have to feel bad about it. You didn't egg me on or anything."

The warm feeling began to spread across his wrist, as though gently massaging the bruised muscle, easing the pain out. Dean half-expected some golden light to be coming out of Castiel's hands, but there was simply a feeling. Castiel in turn remained silent, focused, but still not raising his eyes to meet Dean.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, trying to lower his head to look at Castiel's face.

"Fixing the sprain," was the reply, as though it was doctor's orders directly to zap a sprain right out of Dean's wrist.

For a long moment, they were quiet, which was becoming a familiar thing. The warmth spread upward, as though what ever Castiel was using to heal his sprain was beginning to work its way through his veins, upward to the other injuries.

"Funny way to show you're mad at me," Dean said, attempting a joke.

Yet, the humor seemed to fall in mid-air. The warmth continued to work through his body, but Castiel's hands fell to his sides, his fingers curling inward. He shook his head, pulling his wings tight against his back. "I'm not mad, Dean. I came to man five hundred years ago who had decapitated his wife and was praying for forgiveness. For that, I was angry. For you defending yourself against a drunk in a bar? I can't be angry at you for that."

"I stole his money," Dean explained. It was a little twisted, feeling as though he was _attempting_to get Castiel to be angry. From what little Dean knew of angels and the Bible and all that was that angels were like God's soldiers. They did what ever God wanted, and if the Ten Commandments were to be followed, Dean had screwed at least five of them in the past year. He wasn't sure if killing monsters counted as murder, but if it did, then it was a wonder that Castiel was allowed to be within a mile of him.

As though Castiel had read Dean's mind, he shook his head. "Dean, you have sinned. You're aware, and the last time you admitted that you had done wrong with intent, you had just learned to speak. However, you have never done an action against someone with the intent to ruin them. The man you fought tonight, you simply fought for your own protection. Fifty dollars was not vital to him, and you didn't take away his ability to feed his family for what you stole." Then, Castiel paused, and in an oddly human gesture, bit his bottom lip. "Now, I do have to speak for God, and so I do say that you have done wrong. But... I cannot find myself, as an individual, finding it in me to be angry with you.

That alone proved one thing to Dean, even if his knowledge was limited. Castiel wasn't like the angels he had been told about. He wasn't the cold, glowing soldier that church altars had envisioned. He didn't rain down divine wrath just because God vaguely gestured to it. Castiel struck him as someone who had something oddly _human_in him.

"Are all angels like you?" he asked, his curiosity getting the best of him.

"No," Castiel said, and something in his voice denoted that it wasn't something he was proud of. "They are far more diligent in their work, and much closer to our Father, I believe."

"I mean, are they this... _nice_?" he tried, stressing the word. Even as he said it, he felt the pressure from the bruise on his face dissipate, and then the warmth rising upward to the cut near his hairline.

The answer seemed hard to grasp for Castiel, so he shrugged in response, but even that seemed hesitant. "That is a very generous word to use for me."

"You just healed me up from a bar fight that I kind of caused. That counts as 'nice' in my book."

At first, Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but for the first time in the two years (or full hour) that Dean had known him, he looked genuinely flustered. Finally, he shook his head, an uneasy smile coming to his face. "Consider it a gesture from your guardian. It was my job. Now, how has your last year been?"

Dean raised a now-healed eyebrow. "Kind of a sad subject change, don't you think?"

"My original intention was not to heal you from a fight. I believe our original plan was to watch a movie about a spy. Evidently, something caused a change in these plans," Castiel said.

"Well, a lot can happen in a year," Dean said stiffly, his mind slowly going back to Emily-behind-the-library, and glass bottles of beer lined up on a windowsill, with his head throbbing and the crust of tears ringing his eyes even though he never remembered crying.

"I'm aware," Castiel said, though he sounded more sympathetic than sarcastic.

So, Dean told him. He told him how after they left Douglas, he did have a good time with Sam, just as he had promised. They had driven through Yellowstone National Park, for the first time in Dean and Sam's lives, with John gruffly excusing that it was a shortcut to get to Kalispell, Montana, where another job was. That trip was good, and Dean couldn't get enough of Sam gawking at buffalo and geysers. However, once they arrived in Kalispell, everything started to go bad. John and Dean began to argue again, first over which job to take next, with Dean pushing to take the job that would take two weeks, merely so they could give Sam even the slightest sense of permanence. It opened an old wound, of an argument that had caused an angel to find him in the first place, and once again, had upset Sam.

Dean went on to talk about how John point-blank refused to take the two week job and found a hunt that would only take three days or so out in North Dakota. Dean had been furious with him, and had refused to go on the hunt, which started another fight. That one had ended with Dean taking what money he still had from Douglas and getting his own room at another hotel, where he drank himself into a stupor, and woke up with the taste of his own vomit in his mouth.

For months after that, history wouldn't stop repeating itself. John and Dean's fights were becoming more frequent, but as time pressed on, Dean began to convince himself that maybe they fought not because Dean was right, but because he was _wrong_. He began to tell Sam that their dad was as good of a person as Dean had promised back when they were younger. He swore that things weren't as bad as they looked, but the more he told Sam that, the more he felt sick with the idea of it.

"You began drinking more," Castiel said.

"Yeah," Dean affirmed, nodding stiffly. "A lot more."

It had come to its peak in Logan, Ohio, when John had found Dean curled over the toilet in their motel one morning, hands gripped around his midsection, the odor of whiskey still on him. Without sympathy, John had yanked Dean back from the toilet, yelling and raising hell, saying that no son of his would ever rely on alcohol to get through anything, as tough as it could get. Dean shakily replied that John was a hypocrite for saying so. John just about burst an artery in the shouting match that ensued, which only ended when the noise was far too much and Dean ended up vomiting on the floor. John made him clean it up before coldly telling him that they were going to Fort Wayne the next day, and that he should get ready before John would make him walk.

Fort Wayne itself was a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it gave Dean a chance to think about what he was putting himself through, since he was forced into library research duty with Sam as some sort of strange punishment. On the other hand, it made him meet Emily, which he now considered a curse. She was a student, picking through some books on art, looking as innocent as could be.

"You fornicated," Castiel said, his expression turning sour.

At least Castiel didn't spare the bluntness.

"Well, not _completely_. I mean, she was _gorgeous_, and she kept looking at me. And, y'know, I'm a warm-blooded American male, so-"

"Dean, please. I don't need to hear about your sexual escapades with an art student," Castiel murmured.

In short, they had indeed nearly 'fornicated', and sparing the tiny details, it wasn't until Dean returned to the motel that night that he started to feel inklings of regret and guilt. He had hardly taken the time to learn her name, or what she was like. At the time, she had simply been a beautiful creature making come-hither glances at him. But, Dean wasn't so heartless as to pass her off as such. At least, not until later that night.

"So, in short, you have been on a downward spiral for a year," came the angelic conclusion.

Dean nodded, jamming his hands in his jean pockets and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Pretty much."

"All the way until an hour ago."

"Yeah."

Castiel gave a long sigh, as though he simply didn't know what to do. Though, that was impossible, seeing as he had dealt with murderers before. His wings pressed against his back, the down feathers on the top of both wavering in the breeze coming off the lake. He looked out at the dark water, the currents like ripples in ink. "Next year, Dean Winchester, I'll see you again. I can promise you that. You will be in Muskegon, Michigan by that time."

There was an unsaid sentence there, floating somewhere between them, like a silent ultimatum that Castiel was still devising. "And?" Dean asked, leaning forward.

"And I expect things will have changed again. I recommend... not drinking, first of all. Alcohol is a poison unto itself," he said. "If it helps you, focus on Sam, and the impression you leave on him. That alone should be a motivation."

Dean had considered that before, sometimes in his more lucid moments. Thinking of Sam and what he would be seeing, being his older brother drinking, and then vomiting in the morning as though seized in some half hour-long flu. And what did he think when he found out what Dean had done in Fort Wayne? No, Sam didn't deserve things like that. He was a good kid, with much too good a head on his shoulders to be in the family he was in, in the situation and lifestyle he was forced to be a part of. For all John swore on and on about revenge and how Sam should think about his mother, it never escaped Dean that Sam would simply roll his eyes and say nothing more. At first, it had pissed Dean off, as though Sam was pushing Mary's memory aside like it was nothing. Then, it occurred to him that as far as Sam remembered, Mary might have well not existed. She wasn't a part of his life for more than six months, not counting the nine months of pregnancy. He had no memory of her, and thus couldn't connect the need for revenge with a memory he didn't have in the first place.

So, being shoved into this life, it was a wonder Sam didn't have some sort of mental problem. The hunting lifestyle was all he knew, but he kept looking for the brighter side of it, beyond the fighting between the only two family members he had, and the monsters that he knew were real. It only served to make Dean feel more guilty when he figured that he wasn't helping Sam get a better life, or see that life was a lot better than John sometimes made it out to be.

"You're right," Dean said, shaking his head. He could have punched himself right then. "I bet he thinks I'm a pathetic excuse for a brother."

"No," Castiel replied, and the air of the ultimatum was gone in an instant, replaced by sympathy, flowing from him like a comforting warm wave, just as it had felt to be healed by him. "To Sam, you're the best thing he could have asked for. Of course, as he grows, he'll not want to show it. But he learns from you. He's already planning a better life beyond hunting, because you have _shown_him there is a life there. This past year hasn't been easy for either of you, has it?"

"Not really," Dean admitted.

"Then give yourselves a year to heal over. If you truly want to be the big brother he wanted, then start with helping yourself," Castiel said, his voice calm. His wings flexed out a bit, as though readying for flight. "As I said, I'll see you in a year in Muskegon. I hope for the best."

"Yeah, I'll try," Dean replied. Then, he looked back down at his hand, instinctively still held to his chest as though still sprained. He frowned at it, and then looked back up at Castiel, only to find that he had disappeared. A breeze kicked up some of the waves on the dark lake, with another feather hovering on it. Dean caught it, seeing it catch just the faintest amount of light from a street light behind him. "Thanks," he whispered, idly wondering if Castiel could hear him in Heaven, or wherever he had flown off to.

He walked back to the hotel, finding the room's windows dark. Carefully, he opened the door, using every lesson in stealth he was ever taught to prevent John from waking up and pointing a pistol at his head. However, nothing happened, so he nudged his boots off, hung his coat on the back of the rocking chair in the corner, and got into bed next to Sam.

Sam was fast asleep, his arms wrapped around a spare pillow, face half-buried into it. Dean sometimes wondered if that was some kind of replacement for all the years Sam had clung to Dean, afraid of the monsters in the closet and only finding solace in the fact that his big brother was _never _afraid, and as long as Dean was there, nothing would happen. Now, it was limited to a pillow, which Dean considered, in amusement, to be a pretty bad demotion.

As soon as Dean laid down, he felt Sam's side shift. When he looked down, he found that Sam was pressed against his side, still holding the pillow, but now with the faintest of smiles on his face. Dean smiled in return, putting an arm around his little brother in a comfortable, familiar gesture. For Sam, he figured, he could definitely follow Castiel's advice again.


End file.
